Chapter 7: The King's Test
The following afternoon found Hugo on his hands and knees, scrubbing at a greasy spot on the kitchen tile. The ammonia bite of the cleaner barely cut through the apartment’s deeper, permanent scent. His jaw ached with a dull, familiar throb, and each swallow was a sore reminder of the night’s length.
Heitor’s key turned in the lock just as Hugo rinsed his sponge. The door swung open, flooding the dim hallway with harsh afternoon light. Heitor stood silhouetted, his gym bag slung over a shoulder, his white tank top plastered to his torso with sweat.
He dropped the bag directly onto the clean, wet tile. It landed with a damp thud. “Tá com fome, gringo?”
Hugo froze, the sponge dripping in his hand. He watched, his wide hazel eyes tracking the movement as Heitor casually unzipped his shorts. The thick, musky curve of him was already evident, half-hard against the fabric. Heitor pushed the shorts down his hips, freeing himself.
He didn’t elaborate. He merely looked from his own cock to the floor between his feet, then back at Hugo’s face. The command was silent, absolute.
Hugo’s knees were still sore from the hard bedroom floor. His throat screamed in protest at the thought. He crawled forward. The damp tile soaked through his jeans, a chilling contrast to the heat he approached.
“Isso mesmo,” Heitor murmured, his hand settling heavily on Hugo’s head as he neared. The gym sweat was sharper, more acrid than the night’s musky aroma. “Vem comer.”
The first touch of his tongue to salt-damp skin was electric. Hugo’s own breath hitched. Heitor was already fully hard, the weight of him pressing against Hugo’s lips. He opened his mouth, a conditioned response now.
Heitor didn’t let him set the pace. His fingers twisted in Hugo’s hair, pulling him forward until his nose was buried in the dense, sweaty thatch at the base. “Engole tudo, seu puto. Toda essa brasileirada.”
The words were a dark, warm rumble above him. Hugo choked immediately, the sheer size forcing a gag reflex that shook his whole body. Tears sprung to his eyes. Heitor held him there, merciless, for a long count.
When he pulled Hugo back, saliva webbed Hugo’s chin to Heitor’s glistening flesh. “A boquinha ainda tá dolorida, né?” Heitor observed, a flicker of amusement in his deep-set eyes. He slapped his cock lightly against Hugo’s flushed cheek. “Boa. Vai sentir amanhã também.”
He began to fuck his mouth in earnest then, not with the brutal, night-long rhythm of before, but with a possessive, conversational cadence. Each deep thrust was punctuated with filthy, praising commentary. “Caralho, como essa boca francêsa sabe sorver.”
Hugo’s world dissolved into the slap of skin, the salty-bitter taste of precum, the overwhelming smell of Heitor’s dominant exertion. He tried to breathe through his nose, inhaling nothing but that potent, hairy musk.
“Vai deixar essa merda de aula na sua cabeça?” Heitor grunted, his hips pistoning. “Só vai lembrar do cheiro do meu saco.” He was right. The lecture on international finance had blurred into a distant hum, replaced by the present, physical reality of submission.
Heitor’s voice was a constant, grounding force. “Usa a língua, sim. Lambe essas bolas.” Hugo obeyed, straining downward as Heitor pushed his head lower, his mouth leaving the shaft to lave at the heavy, tight scrotum beneath.
The texture was coarse, the skin surprisingly soft. Heitor sighed, adjusting his stance. “Isso, gringo. Tá aprendendo.”
After what felt like an hour, Heitor’s movements grew more urgent, less controlled. His grip became vicelike. “Agora você engole,” he commanded, the words a rough growl. “Não desperdiça nada.”
The climax was a deep, pulsing flood that Hugo struggled to accommodate. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working around the intrusion, until Heitor finally pulled out, softening, from his bruised lips.
Heitor looked down at him, a king surveying his work. Hugo knelt, panting, strings of spit and semen connecting him to the glistening cock before him. The afternoon sun highlighted the mess on his face.
“Limpa,” Heitor said softly, tapping his flesh against Hugo’s parted lips. Hugo leaned forward, cleaning him with slow, tender strokes of his tongue until he was soft and clean. The taste was now a familiar anchor.
Heitor zipped his shorts, leaving Hugo kneeling in the kitchen. He picked up his gym bag and walked toward the shower, calling over his shoulder, his tone light, almost friendly. “Depois passa um pano nesse chão de novo. Tá todo melecado.”
Hugo listened to the shower start. He slowly sat back on his heels, running his tongue over his own teeth. The ache was deep. The floor around him was indeed spotted. He reached for the sponge, the cleaner’s scent completely lost now under the taste he knew would linger for days.
Heitor, only speaks Brazilian. No English words from him, only Brazilian sentences. From Heitor in the next chapters, only Brazilian Portuguese sentences (Hugo globally understands it).